


Corporate Espionage and Other Ways to Flirt

by tiigi



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Identity Porn, Kinda, M/M, Pretty Woman meets My Fair Lady, Prostitution, Sugar Daddy, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:48:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26559976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiigi/pseuds/tiigi
Summary: Tom had been perfectly civil when he’d said hello, when he’d asked how Greg was enjoying his night. He’d been polite when he was buying Greg drinks and then, once he’d trailed a hand down the length of Greg’s arm to rest on his hip and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Greg’s ear, he’d been more than generous with his money.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 55
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly Tom being a sugar daddy to Greg isn’t even that much of a stretch?? Anyway, I hope you enjoy :’)

Greg doesn’t know how Tom has become such a monumental part of his life. It seemed to happen so quickly, so suddenly; one minute he was alone, and he was fine with being alone, and the next he met Tom, and that was it. 

He occupies an almost permanent space in the back of Greg’s mind, even when he’s working, even when he’s with other people. He sees a billboard in the street that he thinks Tom would find funny and he takes a picture of it, he finds a recipe that sounds exciting and he sends it to Tom. Greg has never felt for a client the way he feels about Tom, and most of the time he doesn’t even know what that is. 

They met, embarrassingly enough, while Greg was on another job. He’d been in a nightclub with some hotshot Wall Street asshole who’d left to get them some more drinks when Tom had sidled up to him, one hand moving to cup Greg’s elbow in a gentle ‘look at me’ gesture. He’d been scowling, kind of, looking anything but pleased to be there, and for a moment Greg was sure this was some kind of trick. Maybe it was a trap, maybe this guy was a police officer trying to get him on solicitation, or maybe he was just some asshole who lost a bet. Either way, Greg had been… nervous, to say the least. 

But Tom had been perfectly civil when he’d said hello, when he’d asked how Greg was enjoying his night. He’d been polite when he was buying Greg drinks and then, once he’d trailed a hand down the length of Greg’s arm to rest on his hip and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Greg’s ear, he’d been more than generous with his money. He’d have to be, Greg had told him, if he wanted to make it worthwhile to ditch another client. 

After that, they’d met up maybe once a week. Once turned to two times and then they started texting and all of a sudden, seemingly out of nowhere, Greg found himself in way over his head with no idea what he was doing or how to get out. 

The worst part is that, even now, he doesn’t really want to.

*

“You’re late,” Tom greets him, stony faced. Greg never knows when Tom is joking - if a sincere apology will just result in laughter and humiliation - so he mutters a half hearted ‘sorry’ and takes a seat opposite Tom.

The restaurant is not the fanciest one Tom has brought him to so far, but he can tell without even looking at the menu that it’s more expensive than anything he could afford on his own. He feels guilty just sitting here at this table where he doesn’t belong, with the pretty cloth and three sets of forks. Greg doesn’t know what they could possibly be used for, even though Tom has tried explaining it to him several times. 

“What are we having?” Greg asks, hunger gnawing at his stomach even now. He has a steady enough income these days - thanks to Tom - to have three proper meals a day, but sometimes he forgets or finds himself too busy to eat lunch. Today happens to be one of those days. 

“I already ordered. Told them to bring it out in a few minutes. I thought you’d be late.”

Greg doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s not exactly an insult, not by Tom’s standards, but it’s not a compliment either so he just stays silent and offers a hesitant, half smile when Tom looks. Tom always orders for both of them - Greg never knows what to get from these places, doesn’t know what half the things on the menu actually are, and Tom likes doing it anyway. Greg thinks it gives him a sense of power, of authority. 

“How was your week?” Greg asks in the end, just to break the silence. He’s never been able to shake the feeling that he’s being watched when Tom takes him out like this, to these fancy restaurants where he’s too exposed and his suits don’t fit quite right and he doesn’t have a hundred dollar haircut like the rest of them. He’s always paranoid that they’ll know he’s an outsider here, that he doesn’t belong. He’s never voiced these worries to Tom before, but Greg thinks he knows.

“Fine,” Tom shrugs. He never likes to talk about work or his personal life or, well, anything really. “Stressful. We don’t need to talk about that. What have you been up to?”

“Oh, uh.” Here, Greg flounders. He spent his week hooking, with a few regular clients and a few new ones. Then, at the end of the day, when he went home to his shitty one bedroom flat in a terrible neighbourhood, he smoked pot until he passed out. All things considered, it was a pretty uneventful week. 

“Yeah, not much,” he says finally, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just– working.”

Tom’s eyes flash with something fierce and unidentifiable. He’s always so fucking intense, so much so that Greg can barely stand to look at him sometimes. It feels like he’s looking into Greg’s soul, reading his mind and turning him inside out. Greg should have known better than to bring up work while he’s with a client in the first place, but Tom seems to hate it more than anyone. He squares his jaw and smiles through gritted teeth.

“Sounds thrilling.”

“Uh, sure.” He always does this, mocks Greg when he’s angry. 

When the food comes, Greg is so ready for it, if only to break up the tense silence between them. Greg’s napkin lays in his lap, shredded to pieces, and he tries to hide it when the waiter comes. Tom doesn’t say anything for a while, just stares into his meal like it holds the answers to the universe, and Greg feels hopelessly out of place. 

Half the time that they spend together, Greg thinks Tom is just waiting to leave. It’s strange, really, and kind of sad, because Tom pays top dollar for the company of a guy he doesn’t even like, and if Greg was any kinder or any less desperate, maybe he’d quit himself. It would be for Tom’s best, certainly.

He doesn’t, of course, because he does need the money and Tom is rich enough to spend a lot on someone he doesn’t actually like, but Greg  _ should.  _ He knows it. 

“Do you like it?” Tom nods towards Greg’s plate and Greg shifts in his seat. This is safer territory.

“Yeah, thank you. It’s nice.” Tom always seems to know how to order things that Greg will like. It’s a relief, because otherwise these fancy fucking dinners would be pretty unbearable. 

“Just  _ nice?”  _ Tom scoffs, but it’s playful so Greg doesn’t let himself worry too much. “Don’t tell me you’d rather be at– at  _ Burger King,  _ Greg. Maybe McDonald’s? Christ, you’re hopeless.”

“Have you ever been to a Burger King?” Greg asks, an eyebrow raised. From anyone else, this back-and-forth might make Greg uncomfortable. A lot of the people he spends time for have suits that cost more than Greg’s apartment, and he doesn’t particularly enjoy talking about his own working class habits to a bunch of yuppies. He doesn’t feel that way with Tom, though, even though that doesn’t make any sense. Tom is by far the most well off of all his clients, but he’s so disgustingly rich that the whole situation just seems funny instead. 

“No, Greg,” Tom replies. “And I never will. I’m trying to refine your palate here, help me out a little.”

“I’m just saying, man,” Greg shrugs, but he’s smiling. He takes a sip of overpriced wine to hide it. “I don’t think you can diss something like that until you know what you’re talking about.”

Tom’s mouth twists into a reluctant smile and he watches Greg carefully, even as he brings his glass to his lips and drinks. Greg knows what that look means, and his leg starts bouncing under the table. They haven’t even finished their meal and Greg is already eager to get the fuck out of here and just go to a hotel. Tom loves fucking on expensive hotel beds– so much so that Greg sometimes thinks he prefers the luxury to the actual sex. 

Greg casts another glance around the restaurant and wonders idly if Tom knows anybody here. It wouldn’t be that surprising, because it’s an expensive place and it seems like a hotspot for rich businessmen; everybody here is wearing a designer suit of some sort. They all look the same, Greg realises, all blending into one big crowd of grey pinstripes and blue and black and pink pocket squares. It’s strange to think that, if Greg didn’t know him, Tom would be just another suit in this crowd. He’d fit right in, if it weren’t for Greg.

“Hey,” Greg leans over the table to whisper, the barest hint of a smile on his face. Tom leans in closer as well, excited by the sudden secrecy. “What do you reckon to those two over there?” He tilts his head as subtly as he can manage towards the table by the entrance. Tom follows his gaze and then pauses, rests his chin in his palm.

“I’m saying father-daughter,” he says eventually.

“What?” Greg laughs, and then stops abruptly at the harsh looks he gets. “No way. They’re totally on a date. Look at her shoes.”

Tom raises an eyebrow. “What’s so suspicious about her shoes?”

“Nothing’s  _ suspicious.  _ They’re just not the kind of shoes you wear to meet up with your dad.”

“You have a lot of experience with kitten heels, do you Greg?”

Greg laughs again and tries to cover his mouth with his hand. He’s always felt self conscious around Greg, a little giddy and out of control. It’s not always a nice feeling. Tom is speaking again before he can reply.

“I suppose you’d know better than I do, to be fair. You have… more experience in that department.”

“The– the shoe department?”

Tom rolls his eyes. “Yes, Greg, the  _ shoe department.  _ No– the ‘seducing older men’ department. Case in point.” He gestures to himself and takes another careful sip of wine, watching Greg over the rim of the glass. “Maybe I should take your word for it.”

Greg is about to reply - with what, he doesn’t actually know - when he notices the couple they’d be talking about getting up to leave. It’s probably a good thing, because he would likely have responded with the first thing to come into his head, and that’s never usually a good option.

“Hey, look,” he whispers, hunched over the table. Tom mirrors him again, and they’re so close that their foreheads would knock together if Greg so much as shifted. He tucks his hair behind his ear.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Tom grins. The man curls a possessive hand around the woman’s waist when they get up to leave, in a decidedly non-fatherly way. “I sure hope you were right, Greg.”

He looks back towards Greg and the smile fades on his face when he sees how close they are, dims into something a little darker and a little more playful. His gaze flits between Greg’s eyes and his lips.

“Are you done?” He asks, low and seductive. Greg shivers. “What do you say we get out of here?”

*

Sometimes, Greg is so grateful to have met Tom that he thinks he might love him. It’s a terrifying feeling, because he’s barely holding onto control at the best of times and Tom makes him feel like he’s hurtling around on a roller coaster without a safety belt. 

He has to remind himself, every time, why it would be a terrible idea to fall for Tom. He can be an asshole, at times. He’s big money, not to mention a  _ Republican _ , which means he and Greg would be diametrically opposed on most important things. It would never work. He’s a fair few years older than Greg, which wouldn’t be a big deal if  _ Tom  _ wasn’t such a big deal, if there wasn’t a lot at stake for him. They hardly know anything about each other: Tom doesn’t know his last name or where he’s from, and Greg doesn’t know where Tom works or what his childhood was like. That’s kind of an important aspect of a relationship, knowing the little details like that. Really, Greg thinks again, it just wouldn’t work.

Besides, Greg is pretty sure that Tom is married. 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s just gone ten when Greg gets the text. It’s unexpected, because nobody messages him this late in the evening. Greg sometimes can’t believe he’s supposed to be in the prime of his life, because if he’s not on a job he likes to be in bed by nine with hot chocolate and trash television. 

This evening, however, he looks at his phone and finds a message from Tom. He has to wait a few minutes to let that sink in, and to emotionally prepare himself for whatever this is going to be. 

Last minute arrangements always make Greg nervous.

_What’s your address? I’m coming over._

Greg blinks. That’s… it. That’s all it is. They haven’t given each other their addresses before - haven’t even been to one another's houses - because of Tom’s inclination to keep things somewhat anonymous. Greg has visited the homes of countless other clients, but not once has Tom suggested meeting up outside a hotel or a restaurant. 

So it comes as a bit of a shock that he’s asking now. Greg considers calling him, asking if he’s okay, but Tom can be so volatile that he decides not to in the end. He just replies with his address and a quick, _what’s up?_ He’s half expecting Tom to just show up on his doorstep in the next five minutes without sending a response, but he hears his phone beep seconds later.

_Do you have beer?_

Greg checks his fridge, just to be sure. He hardly ever eats in his apartment and there’s usually nothing in his fridge but a few mouldy vegetables, but this time he’s lucky. There are a few cans at the back of the top shelf, as they might be a little old but Tom sounds just about desperate enough that he won’t care.

 _Yeah,_ Greg texts back. _What’s going on?? Are you okay?_

He doesn’t get a reply, of course. He probably wouldn’t have anyway, he tells himself, but there’s a nagging suspicion at the back of his mind that tells him his concern scared Tom off. He really shouldn’t make that mistake again. 

The wait is awful, time dragging on and on until Greg thinks he might lose his mind. He can’t _do_ anything while he waits for Tom, except worry and overthink everything; he ends up cleaning the apartment three times before Tom arrives, kicking stray shoes to the side and hiding dirty clothes under his bed. He feels stupid doing it, but Tom probably has five bedrooms and cleaners twice a week, so Greg has a lot to live up to.

Shit, this is why he shouldn’t give out his personal address to clients. Stalkers are a close second, but what Greg’s really afraid of is that Tom - the only person he’s slept with that he actually kind of likes - will judge him. 

The doorbell buzzes sharp and sudden, and Greg jumps to his feet. He spends a few tense seconds casting his eyes around desperately, but he doesn’t know whether it’s for one last check or whether he’s looking for an excuse to play dead. He could just… stay silent. He could pretend he’s out, not answer the door, block Tom’s number and never see him again. Losing the money would be a blow, but if there’s one thing Greg has learned from his time in New York, it’s that there are always more yuppie assholes looking for an easy lay. Greg is replaceable, but so is Tom.

He doesn’t do that, of course. Tom had sounded genuinely upset in his message - or maybe he hadn’t, really, because what would Tom showing emotion even _look_ like? Either way, Greg answers the door and invites Tom in and decides, as soon as he’s done so, that it was the right move. Tom does look pretty upset. His hair is a little messy and his shirt is wrinkled. Something terrible must have happened.

“Beer, now,” Tom says, running a hand over his face. He looks tired. Greg feels as though he should offer his bed up for a nap. 

“Uh, sure, yeah, okay.” It’s three strides to the kitchen and three strides back. Greg is hyper aware of how tiny his apartment is, how pathetic it must look to someone so accustomed to luxury. He hands Tom a can and watches him empty it in under a minute. The metal clinks against his wedding ring. 

“Another.”

“Um,” Greg says. “Is something wrong?”

“Beer, Greg, now please.” Tom makes a _hurry up_ motion with his hand that Greg should probably find disrespectful, but really he just finds it comforting. Tom is still himself then, despite the weird behaviour.

“So… what’s up?” Greg asks. Tom is drinking, and Greg takes his inability to answer as an opportunity to talk. “Not that I mind having you here, of course. I just didn’t think we were doing the whole… personal thing? Like, I thought, y’know, you didn’t want to know anything about me. Not that I mind, of course! I was just wondering.”

Tom sets the empty can down on the floor - because the only other available surface is Greg’s tiny armchair, and it’s already stained enough. He swipes moisture away from his mouth with the pad of his thumb and takes a deep breath.

“Greg,” he says. “I think I am getting a divorce.”

He starts to laugh - it’s kind of scary, actually, and definitely a little manic - before his face crumples and Greg is afraid he might cry. He places a hand awkwardly over Tom’s shoulder and pats it a few times in what is supposed to be a reassuring gesture. Greg has never been good at the whole emotional comfort shtick, and until now Tom has never needed it. 

“I’m… sorry to hear that.” Greg must be a really sick guy, because he isn’t sorry at all. He’s sorry that Tom is hurting - because he clearly is - but he’s not sorry that Tom won’t have a wife to go home to anymore. He shouldn’t care, but he absolutely does. 

“You can drop the act, Greg. I’m sure you’re thrilled,” Tom says, and for a moment Greg is sure his heart stops. Is Tom about to kill him and dissolve his body in the bathtub for developing real feelings or something? But then he says, “Less competition for you, right? Sorry to break it to you, buddy, but my wife was the one with the money. I mean, I’ll still be able to afford you of course. You aren’t planning to go all high class hooker on me Greg, are you?”

There’s a lot to unpack there, and Greg doesn’t even know where to start. 

“Don’t worry about that,” he says in the end. “No government pay rise for me. They call me dependable Greg.”

Tom’s frown deepens. “And here I thought they called you cokewhore. Whatever. You have any more?” He gestures to the empty beer can and Greg turns towards the kitchen again, thinking that his best option here is to placate Tom until he’s feeling better, then force him to sleep it off when he’s drunk enough that he might accidentally get himself killed if he goes outside. It’s a pretty sound plan, Greg thinks.

“And you know the worst thing, Greg?” Tom keeps talking, even as he sinks down into the armchair, wincing a little like he’s not sure it’s safe to touch it. “I don’t think she even cares.” His eyes dart to Greg suddenly and colour rises in his cheeks. “We’re _happy,_ obviously. We love each other. We’re just in two very different places, business-wise, and we decided it would be beneficial if we stepped back for a while.”

Greg wonders who he’s trying to convince. 

“That sucks.” If he just keeps feeding Tom the most generic responses he can think of, maybe the guy will get tired of talking about his wife.

Not that Greg particularly _cares._ Tom can have a wife. Tom can talk about how much he loves his wife. Greg doesn’t give a shit. It’s just… boring. 

“You know what, Greg? It does suck. It fucking sucks.” He leans over the edge of the chair and puts the drink on the ground, half full still. “Buddy, no offence but that tastes like shit. You couldn’t get a toddler drunk on it. I’m not drinking anymore of that– what, are you trying to poison me? You can’t even wait until I’m old to push me down the stairs, I see how it is.”

“I’m not–“ Greg starts, but figures it’s a pointless cause. Either Tom is teasing him and he should just laugh, or Tom is serious and maybe Tom is more upset than Greg first thought. Either way, he can’t think of a suitable response to that.

When Greg tunes back into the situation at hand, it’s to see Tom unbuckling his belt. His fingers fumble with the button of his slacks and he lifts himself up for long enough to slide his trousers and his underwear down to his knees.

“And you know, it’s not like this break will be _forever,”_ he’s saying, but he’s also gesturing for Greg to come closer, so Greg doesn’t pay the words much mind.

He drops to his knees between Tom’s legs and rests his hands on Tom’s thighs. He’s going to have bruises on his knees tomorrow but Tom is stroking himself slowly, one hand curled around the back of Greg’s neck, urging him down gently, and he doesn’t want to wait even for a second to grab a pillow. His mouth falls open and he sucks lightly on the head of Tom’s cock to start with, hand covering Tom’s own where he’s jerking himself off. Tom hisses through his teeth, a sharp sigh of relief, and Greg takes him in a little further.

Tom’s other hand settles on the back of Greg’s head, fingers tangling in his hair and scratching over his scalp. It’s actually kind of nice, and his eyes fall shut.

“That’s it,” Tom says, nails digging in just slightly when Greg swallows around the head. “Good job.”

 _Good job,_ like he’s working for a fucking gold star. God, _why_ does some meaningless praise turn him on so much? It’s embarrassing, how his dick gets hard and he moans around Tom’s cock.

“God, Greg, you’re such a fucking whore.” 

Tom has said this, or things like this, a hundred times before in all the time they’ve known each other, but he only ever says it like that when Greg is getting him off. It’s less joking, less teasing, more breathy and needy and desperate. Greg bobs his head a little too far forward and gags, has to pull back, but Tom throws his head back and groans. His hips jump and the head of his cock hits the back of Greg’s throat.

It’s not like Greg gets many blowjobs these days, but he figures there must be something pretty hot about having someone choke on your dick, because it really seems to get Tom off. 

“Fuck,” he gasps. Greg pulls off and rubs his thumb in circles over the tip until Tom tenses and comes over his fist. Greg keeps stroking until he’s twitching with oversensitivity, and only then does he sit back on his heels, waiting for Tom to catch his breath.

It takes a few minutes. It’s agony, sitting there and trying to be patient when all he wants to do is get himself off. He knows Tom will be pissed if he doesn’t show any self restraint, but he’s so hard he could cry.

“Fuck,” Tom says again, tired this time. He gives Greg a once over, considering, and then starts pulling his underwear back up.

 _“Tom,”_ Greg whines, leaning forward to rest his forehead on Tom’s knee. 

“Okay, okay,” Tom says as he’s zipping his trousers back up. “Go on then. Put on a show.”

There really isn’t any show about it; Greg jerks himself off without any grace of movement. One hand he stuffs inside his pyjama bottoms and jerks himself off, the other he wraps around Tom’s calf just to ground himself. 

Tom’s fingers are still running through Greg’s hair, petting him, and he seems to be murmuring quiet snippets of praise without even being aware that he’s doing it. Tom catches _‘so pretty’_ and ‘ _fucking whore’_ a few times and that’s all he needs really, he’s already so turned on from sucking Tom’s cock that he comes all over himself after just a few minutes.

Afterwards, he feels breathless and gross. There’s come drying all over his hand and the inside of his thighs, and he’s so tired that he doesn’t ever want to move. The only thing that gets him up and moving is Tom, extricating himself from Greg’s hands and standing up.

“Thanks,” Tom mutters, unable to meet Greg’s eye. “Put it on my tab.” 

Greg’s gotten pretty used to it this last year, but it still feels kind of weird, being told _thanks_ after sucking a guy off. He laughs at Tom’s joke anyway, because he doesn’t want the guy to feel awkward. Not good for business, obviously. 

“Sure thing,” Greg says, and then they both stand in uncomfortable silence. Tom seems unwilling to leave and, even though Greg just wants to crawl into bed and pull the covers over his head and microanalyse every aspect of this interaction until he can remember it word for word, he doesn’t want Tom to go either.

“Listen–” Tom says, at the exact same time that Greg says, “So.” They both look up in surprise and it’s the first time that Tom has looked at him since he came. The moment feels intense and vulnerable.

“Sorry,” Greg laughs, nervous. “You go.”

“Listen, Greg,” Tom says, straightening his clothes. “I’m sorry about…” 

Whatever he’s sorry about, he can’t seem to spit it out. Greg feels breathless, waiting for Tom to finish. It feels like he’s about to say something important.

“I’m sorry about tonight. I didn’t mean to–” Tom cuts himself off abruptly. His eyebrows knit together and he looks around like he’s seeing the place for the first time. He probably is, because he hadn’t exactly seemed altogether coherent when he’d arrived. 

“Wait,” he says, turning on the spot. “You live... here? This is your apartment?”

“Um,” Greg says dumbly. “Yeah?”

“This is your _only_ apartment?”

Greg’s heart sinks. “I only need the one,” he replies, trying to be as cheerful as possible.

“And this is the kitchen?” He points. “That right there? What’s… what’s even the point of this wall? It’s practically the same room.”

Greg stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Uh, privacy, maybe?”

 _“Greg._ This place is a total shithole. You can’t live here!”

“But I do.” He’s not surprised that Tom is saying this, but it still kind of stings. Besides, he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do about it. If Tom really thinks he’s going to move so that they can fuck somewhere nicer then he’s more delusionally rich than Greg though. 

“No you don’t,” Tom says, decisive. “Not anymore. I know a place you can live.”

“Tom,” Greg sighs. “I appreciate that, thank you, but this is, like, the only place in New York that I can afford right now. Maybe next year?”

“No, no.” Tom waves his hand dismissively. “You won’t be paying. I will. You can’t live here, you’re practically living in squalor, Greg. You’ll love this new place; it’s closer to the centre of town anyway, so you might not even need to commute anymore.”

Greg wants to say something, but he’s quite literally speechless. Is Tom really suggesting that he pays Greg’s rent? For some high class, swanky apartment in a New York skyscraper? Jesus, there are _so_ many ways this could go wrong, and Greg can’t find it in him to care about a single one.

“Tom,” he says, biting his lower lip to fight off a goofy smile. “Are you serious? Thank you. So much, holy shit. This is incredible. I can’t even… just _thank you.”_

He’s moving before he can stop himself, throwing his arms around Tom’s neck even though he has to duck to do it comfortably. Tom stiffens, like he hadn’t been expecting the display of gratitude, but after a few awkward seconds, he wraps an arm around Greg and pats his back.

“No problem,” he says, quiet. “It’s just pocket change, Greg. It doesn’t matter to me.”

Greg knows that neither of them really believe that. 


	3. Chapter 3

Greg’s new apartment is fucking insane. He can’t even begin to imagine how much Tom must be paying in rent for this place, and honestly it makes him feel faintly sick just thinking about it, but it’s almost definitely more money than Greg’s ever made in his life. It’s a terrifying thought.

Tom seems to like that he lives there though. He comes over a lot more now, as though the only thing stopping him before was Greg’s abject poorness. 

It’s more than that, though, Greg can tell. It’s like a dam has been broken now, and where they didn’t do  _ emotions  _ before, they do now. They kiss now, and not just dirty kissing like before. They kiss slow and sweet and just for fun, not as foreplay. Tom strokes his hair if they’re lying together in bed and he’ll lay his head in Greg’s lap when they watch TV together. If Greg didn’t know better, he’d say they were in a relationship.

There is the small matter of Tom giving him hundreds of dollars every time they see each other, and the fact that he still pays Greg to sleep with him, but Greg chooses to ignore that issue until he can’t anymore. Then it’ll be a problem for his future self, and one that he doesn’t have to deal with at the moment. 

Greg is too busy at the moment, focusing on controlling his awkwardness. He’s been waiting in the lobby of a disgustingly posh restaurant for the past ten minutes, and there’s still no sign of Tom. He’s tried calling him a couple of times but it just keeps going to voicemail. Greg’s got enough saved away in his bank account now that he could probably pay the ridiculous prices himself, but the reservation is under Tom’s name and Greg is far too awkward to go eat alone. It’s kind of hard to hide yourself away when you’re six foot seven.

Just as Greg is about to apologise to the waiter for wasting his time and head home, he hears someone shouting his name. There’s the slap of feet hitting the sidewalk and then Tom is there, red faced and panting, doubled over to catch his breath.

“Greg,” he says between deep breaths. “Wait– sorry… wait.”

Greg shuffles uncomfortably and looks between Tom and the waiter, almost feeling like he should make an excuse on Tom’s behalf. He pats Tom’s back with as much casual sympathy as he can muster and tries not to let his hand linger too long. For all these people know, Tom and Greg could be business associates out to discuss important… business things. Greg doesn’t want to disturb that tentative image.

“Hey, man,” he says, and he’s probably already blown it with the tenderness in the voice. Then again, maybe he’s the only one that notices that stuff. “You okay?”

“I’m great, Greg,” Tom says, and now that he’s not so worn out, it’s clear that he’s grinning. Tom smiles back, his happiness infectious. “I’m fantastic. How are you?”

“Not bad. Did something–”

“Gentleman,” the waiter interrupts with thinly veiled impatience. “I’m so sorry to rush you, but would you mind?”

“Oh, right,” Tom says, standing and subtly manoeuvring himself in front of Greg. Greg obliges, happy to take the back seat on the social interaction. “Table for two, under Wambsgams, please.”

What a weird last name, is all Greg can think. 

The waiter frowns, eyes scanning the page in front of him, and then looks up. “Sir,” he says. “I’m so sorry but it appears there’s been a mix up. Your reservation isn’t until tomorrow afternoon.”

Tom blinks. “Oh,” he says. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure, sir.”

“Huh.” Tom turns to Greg, and Greg is fully expecting an eight on the Tom meltdown scale, but to his surprise he doesn’t look angry at all. Instead, he looks like he might start laughing any minute. 

“Greg,” he says, lips twitching into a smile. “It would appear I have fucked up the booking.”

Greg tilts his head. “Are you drunk?”

“Drunk on life, maybe. Are you hungry? We have to go somewhere for lunch.”

“Gentleman.” The waiter leans over the desk and glares. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to move aside. You’re holding up the queue.”

Greg looks over his shoulder. There’s one elderly couple waiting behind them and they don’t even look too sure of where they are, but other than that the lobby is completely empty. Greg turns to Tom with raised eyebrows, waiting expectantly. 

“Come on then, Gregory,” Tom says. He loops an arm around Greg’s waist and leads him away from the desk without so much as a nervous glance behind him. Greg follows wordlessly, too baffled by the whole situation to protest.

“You look nice,” Tom says when they’re outside. “That sweater looks good on you. Did I buy you that?” 

Greg looks down at the sweater he threw on today and, sure enough, it’s one that Tom picked out for him. It’s still nicer than anything Greg owned before, but it’s not as fancy as the suits or the blazers. Greg wears this one a lot when he’s on his own, lazing around in bed, because it reminds him of Tom. Not that he would ever admit that.

“Uh, yeah, I think so,” he says. “But, um… are you sure you’re okay, dude? You’re definitely not drunk? Or high?”

Greg has a joint waiting for him when he gets home that he can’t wait to smoke, but maybe he should invite Tom back with him if it would be like this. He looks so happy and carefree, more so than Greg has ever seen him. 

“I’m  _ fine,  _ Greg, Jesus _.  _ What, I can’t say that you look good without there being something wrong with me? That’s quite a self confidence problem you’ve got there.”

Compliments from Tom, outside of sex, are few and far between. Greg’s not saying there’s something  _ wrong  _ with him, but he’s also not  _ not  _ saying it. 

“Well. Thanks, man,” Greg says, beginning to smile. He becomes aware of Tom’s eyes on him after a few moments of walking in silence, in which Tom almost trips over his own feet twice. Greg is used to people staring at him - mainly for his height, but he also does a lot of embarrassing shit - but Tom isn’t usually one of them. When they’re out together in public, Tom usually avoids looking at him at all. This is… new.

“What’s up?” Greg asks, feeling awkward. He hates feeling awkward with Tom. It distracts him from his little fantasy where they’re properly dating, and Tom comes back home to Greg at the end of the day instead of his wife.

“Can I get you a haircut?” Tom asks suddenly. Greg stops still in the middle of the street and a jogger runs into the back of him, grumbling as he makes his way past. 

“A haircut? You want to cut my hair?”

_ “I  _ don’t want to cut your hair, Greg. I’d make a terrible mess of it. You can say no.”

Greg’s hand flies to his hair protectively, tugging on the ends a little. He usually has his hair a little longer. In high school it made him look like a stoner - which he technically was - but now it just makes him look different, like he doesn’t belong with Tom. He could do with cutting that off.

“No, no, it’s okay.” Greg shoves a hand into his pocket and let’s the other dangle uselessly at his side. “It’s fine. Whatever you want.”

Tom’s grip around his waist tightens. “Whatever I want,” he repeats, eyes dark. Then, “Wait here.”

*

“So, I know what you’re thinking,” Tom says, hovering behind Greg’s chair. Their eyes meet in the mirror as they wait for the hairdresser to come back. Greg feels kind of stupid, just sitting there with his hair pinned back like he’s getting a perm.

“Um,” he says. “You do? I usually just go for a trim…”

Tom rolls his eyes. “Not your  _ haircut,  _ Greg. You don’t get to decide what you want here, anyway.”

“You don’t?”

“Of course not. You pay them to make that decision for you.”

“Oh.” Greg frowns. “I’m not so sure–”

“You’re thinking that the dates are good and the sex is good and the money is good, but you sure wish you had some more free time. Am I wrong?”

Greg blinks. He  _ has  _ kind of been thinking that lately, so it’s weird and a little creepy that Tom seems to just know that about him. He doesn’t want to give Tom the satisfaction of admitting he was right, though, so instead he shrugs and bites his thumbnail nervously.

“Uh, I guess? Maybe? It’s never really crossed my mind.”

“Bullshit.” Tom pats Greg’s shoulder patronisingly. “I have a proposition for you, Greg, and I think you’re going to like it.” He pauses for a moment as the hairdresser returns and starts taking the clips out of Greg’s hair. Greg expects Tom to wait until they’re alone to keep talking, but he doesn’t seem to care that there are other people around to hear. Greg’s heart flutters.

“I think we should be exclusive,” Tom says, and then crosses his arms across his chest like he’s expecting an argument.

Greg frowns. “You want us to be exclusive?” He repeats, eyes darting to the woman beside him and then away, quickly. “What about…”

“Aside from that,” Tom hurries to say, waving his hand dismissively. “What I mean is that I think you should stop seeing other people. I’m taking care of your rent now, and if you need I can have food delivered to your apartment every week. You don’t really need to see other people, do you?”

Greg doesn’t know what to say. He’s– happy, really, that Tom wants to be exclusive. That Tom wants to be the only person Greg sleeps with. Is that a good sign? Should he be  _ hopeful?  _ Does this suggest that maybe Tom is going ahead with the divorce, and he’s putting more of his eggs in Greg’s basket, so to speak?

“Gee, don’t get too excited.” Tom’s smile fades a little, and Greg hates the way his heart pangs at that. He wants to keep Tom happy and smiling always. He’s so fucked.

“No, I– I am excited,” Greg assures him. “Yeah. Yes, let’s do it. I’m in.”

God, what the fuck is he  _ doing?  _ There are so many reasons why this is a bad idea: if something goes wrong, if he falls out with Tom or if Tom’s wife finds out or anything, really, Greg would be ruined. He’d have no income, nowhere to live and on top of all that he’d have pissed off his regular clients so that they wouldn’t want him anymore either. Can he really let himself rely so thoroughly on Tom? Can he really let Tom have  _ that  _ much control over him?

Yes, he decides in the end. Yes he can.

*

They eat, eventually, at the nearest McDonald’s they can find. Tom says it’s Greg’s choice today, and Greg isn’t passing up the opportunity to see Tom in his expensive suit with his yuppie briefcase, sat in a McDonald’s booth. He looks uncomfortable and utterly out of his element, and honestly Greg loves it. 

“Sorry about lunch, though,” Greg says. “Do you want to meet again tomorrow for the reservation, or…”

He knows he’s pushing it, but he can’t help seeking out a little more time with Tom. Greg’s had more fun just hanging out with him in McDonalds than he has in all the posh restaurants they’ve been to, but he’ll suffer through the expensive meal and the five star service if it means he gets to see Tom. Shit, maybe Greg’s been spoiled. 

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” Tom claps Greg on the back so hard that it almost sends him stumbling forward. “I’ll just go tomorrow with my wife. She’s taking the day off so we can spend some time together.”

Greg’s heart sinks. He kind of wishes he hadn’t had that milkshake on top of the greasy fries, because now he thinks he might throw up. He has to be careful not to let Tom see his extreme reaction, but it’s hard when the man is watching him like a hawk.

“Oh,” Greg says after a moment’s uncomfortable silence. “Okay. Cool.”

“Yeah,” Tom says, his enthusiasm dimmed a little now, and of  _ course  _ that’s why he’s been so happy today. It’s nothing to do with Greg, Tom is just happy because he’s giving it another shot with his wife.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.”

“Don’t– you don’t have to apologise. You’re the one calling the shots here, dude. You’re the one paying.” Greg means it as a joke, but it comes out sounding bitter and sad. His face flushes with humiliation. 

“Right,” Tom nods. The space between them is thick with tension, so Greg isn’t surprised when Tom gets up to leave. He says, “I should really be going.”

“Yeah, okay.” Greg doesn’t move. Usually, he’d at least walk with Tom to wherever he was being picked up. “See you.”

Tom hesitates, only a little, just for a second. Greg sees it out of the corner of his eye and his breath catches in his throat, hope unfurling in his stomach like a flame. If Tom stays, just a second longer, Greg will get up. He’ll go to him. They don’t have to talk, they can just go to Greg’s apartment, to the bedroom, and Greg can live in his fantasy world for a few hours more.

Then Tom is moving, leaving, weaving his way through the crowd, and Greg wishes he’d never gotten his hopes up in the first place. Let this teach him a valuable lesson, he thinks, that a client could never be his fucking boyfriend. He provides a service and Tom gets to live his own life whenever he’s not around Greg. Greg can’t be upset about that, nor can he just expect Tom to feel the same way about him.

He needs to cut this off at the root before it gets any worse. This thing with Tom is purely business, and he can’t just drop everything for a few more minutes with him. The sooner Greg learns that, the better.

*

The next day, Greg wakes to his phone ringing. It’s Tom, because of course it is, calling to ask if Greg would like to go to lunch with him at the fancy restaurant from yesterday.

Greg says yes, because who was he kidding?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it’s been a while! I have... no excuses?

Greg rarely spends any time with his family. It’s a shame, really, because he didn’t have a _bad_ childhood. His mom and dad’s divorce kind of fucked things up for him, and he hasn’t seen much of his dad since he was about thirteen after a disastrous attempt at a birthday party, but other than that he was a happy kid. He loves his mom– he tries to call her every week, just to check in and catch up and make sure everyone is okay, but when he thinks back on it, he realises that the last time he saw her was Christmas four years ago. Time seems to have slipped away so quickly.

Which is why it’s so weird when his grandfather calls him out of the blue and invites him along to the opera. 

They haven’t spoken in months. His grandpa never cared much for cell phones and on the rare occasions Greg did get a phone call it would be under five minutes, a simple inquiry about his life and his job and when he was coming home. He’d lie about everything, of course, and eventually his grandfather must have gotten the message.

This time, though, Greg doesn’t think he’s getting out of it. The call comes at around midday and his grandpa is already half way here; he’ll be pissed if he’s travelled all that way for nothing, and Greg can’t really say no.

He picks out one of the shirts Tom bought him and a nice pair of slacks that his grandfather won’t scoff at. A benefit of seeing Tom so often now is that he’ll never run out of sophisticated clothing, and that gets particularly useful in situations like this.

Not that Greg has many situations like this, but it’s good to keep his options open. 

Greg hates the opera. He knows Tom would shoot him for saying something so uncivilised, but he _really_ hates the opera. Sitting in a confined space for hours, listening to someone sing while the people behind him shoot him dirty looks for being so tall - like that is something he can control - don’t exactly seem like an entertaining night out. Tom took him once, and after about an hour of Greg fidgeting and looking generally uncomfortable, decided to split and get ice cream instead. It had been a good night, in the end. 

He wishes he were with Tom now though. There’s no way Ewen will let him leave early to get ice cream. He’d probably sooner tie Greg to the chair and force him to watch in true ‘Clockwork Orange’ style. Greg gulps.

“I’m going to go and get the tickets,” Ewen says to him, patting him on the shoulder. “And you wait here. Try not to look so awkward, Greg, they’re going to think you’re suspicious.”

“Okay, cool. Um.” Greg doesn’t know what to say to that, or how to look any less like a creepy tall serial killer, so he just leans against the wall and resists the urge to whistle. 

This place is painfully highbrow. There’s an honest to god red carpet that runs the length of the hallway and disappears up the stairs, and Greg has a hard time believing his grandfather even wants to be here. Ewen hates all things unnecessarily flashy.

Despite what Ewen said, Greg can’t help but feel awkward. He’s so tall that he knows people are looking at him, it isn’t just a paranoid feeling, and he’s seconds away from stuffing his hands into his pockets and sloping away to the toilets when he hears a puzzled voice from behind him say, “Greg?”

Greg turns instantly, because he recognises that voice, and he’s set on edge already. 

“Tom?” 

Tom pushes through the crowd, not seeming to care about the dirty looks he’s getting along the way. It’s such a stupidly _Tom_ thing to do that Greg wants to cry. He’d much rather be here on a date with Tom - he could make fun of the singing all evening and he knows the only reprimand he’d get would be a fond eye roll and a huff of resigned frustration. Ewen would cut down his attempts at a joke with one cold look.

“Greg! I thought it was you, you giant.”

“Yeah, I guess I’m, uh, kind of hard to miss.” Greg laughs a little sheepishly and rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing at the warmth of Tom’s smile. It still feels intense, having Tom’s pleased gaze directed at him.

He’s dressed well, as he always is. His suit is black rather than his usual grey, and a baby blue tie seems to soften the frown lines on his face. He’s had a haircut recently. It looks good on him. Greg is absolutely _not_ pining.

“What are you doing here?” Tom asks. “I didn’t think this was your scene.”

“It’s not,” Greg says bluntly, which he then decides is a little harsh. “I mean, not really. I wouldn’t, like, think to come here on my own or anything. I’m here with somebody. He’s just, uh, getting the tickets.”

Greg points half heartedly over to the queue for the tickets, where Ewen is standing behind a broad shouldered young man and in front of a petite woman with blonde hair cut sharply across her shoulders. Tom looks across to where Greg is pointing and then, inexplicably, his face falls. He goes from open and friendly to closed off and bitter in the space of a few seconds. Greg frowns.

“Oh,” Tom says, voice stilted and cold. “I see.”

“Uh, yeah?” Greg feels like shrugging his shoulders. He’s clearly done something to offend Tom, but he can’t for the life of him figure out what. 

Then Tom says, “Well, I’m here with my wife. We’re on a date.” And it makes a bit more sense.

Now it’s Greg’s turn to say, “Oh,” and look down at his shoes, feeling like Tom just reached inside his chest and squeezed. Of course Tom is pissed - he probably thinks Greg is some creepy stalker or something, trying to disturb Tom’s date with his wife. Greg wouldn’t particularly _mind_ disturbing Tom’s date with his wife if it meant getting more of Tom’s attention, but he wouldn’t be so bold as to do it at the opera, in plain view of everyone where it’s obvious what he’s doing. He doesn’t have the nerve. 

“Right,” Greg nods. “That’s cool. Good for you.” 

And it is good for him. Good for him for giving it another go with his wife. Good for Tom. _Fuck._

“Yeah.” Now Tom sounds outwardly derisive. He folds his arms across his chest and taps his foot against the floor, and Greg thinks that maybe it’s time to get the fuck out of there.

“Well,” he says, pointing over his shoulder. “I’ll just be–”

“Tom!” A shout from the other side of the room disrupts them both. Tom’s head whips around so suddenly that Greg winces in commiseration. Of course he’s worried about his wife catching him with a blue collar hooker. 

Then Greg catches sight of the woman who shouted, and his heart drops to his stomach. He feels like someone just pulled the rug out from under him and now he’s free falling, chest tight, unsteady on his feet. 

That’s _Shiv._ It’s been years since Greg last saw her, even longer since he spoke to her in person, but he’d recognise her anywhere. He’s seen her in the news enough times. 

Double fuck. Tom, Greg’s Tom, is not so much Greg’s Tom at all, it turns out. He’s Shiv’s Tom. 

They’d been invited to the wedding, Greg and his mother, but they hadn’t gone. His mother hadn’t wanted to and it was clear that Ewen didn’t want Greg to have anything to do with it. In truth, Greg would have loved to have gone. He just couldn’t afford the plane ticket.

It’s bizarre, is what it is, and also typical. Of all the rich, yuppie business men called Tom in the entirety of New York City, and Greg manages to fall in love with his cousin’s fucking husband. 

And what’s worse is that Tom clearly doesn’t even know. Jesus, is he going to think that Greg _did_ know when he finds out? Surely not - he approached Greg that first time, and they never met before then. Tom never told him anything about his wife or his job or the family he married into, and Shiv would never have told Tom anything about her weird cousin Greg. 

Greg thinks he might throw up. This is a nightmare - in the space of a minute, his life has been turned upside down. He has to stop seeing Tom now, obviously, and that means he’ll have to move. He’ll have to go crawling back to his old clients, or find new ones. He’ll have to forget all about his feelings for Tom, which means getting rid of everything Tom ever gave him. This all flashes before Greg’s eyes in seconds and he presses his hand against his mouth so that he doesn’t vomit on his shoes. That certainly wouldn’t give off the overly posh vibe he’s trying to achieve. 

He knows he’s acting weird all of a sudden - he must have gone pale - but Tom doesn’t ask. Greg almost _wants_ him to ask, at least wants him to care that something might be wrong, but he doesn’t even speak to Greg. He just turns his back and walks back to his wife. Back to Shiv.

Jesus, how does Greg manage to get himself into the worst situations imaginable, wherever he goes?

“Greg?” Ewen’s voice startles him. He’d been zoning out so much that he hadn’t even noticed his grandfather arriving at his side. “What’s the matter with you?”

Greg lurches forward, surprising them both. “Excuse me,” he says. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

He leaves before Ewen can say anything else. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Hope you enjoyed! <3

Despite all rational thought, it’s incredibly difficult for Greg to actually carry out his plan. He knows he has to break things off with Tom, he knows he has to move out and get on with his life, but actually getting on with that proves to be far harder than Greg had hoped they would be. For a start, it requires him to talk to Tom, and that’s impossible when Greg won’t even reply to his texts. He can’t even read them, because he’s so weak that he’d cave within seconds if he did.

It happens twice before Tom calls him. Greg is curled up on the sofa where he’s been for the past two days, eating egg fried rice from the tub and watching reruns of cooking shows, when his phone starts buzzing. He doesn’t even have to look to know that it’s Tom. Blood rushes in his ears.

“Fuck,” Greg whispers in the silence, spilling rice all over his sofa in his hurry to get his phone out of his pocket. His thumb hovers over the screen for a few seconds, dallying in between ‘accept’ or ‘reject’ before he finally bites the bullet. He has to do this sometime.

“Tom,” Greg starts. “Hi.”

Tom is quiet for a moment. Then he scoffs. “Hi?” He mimicks. “Hi, Greg. Been busy, have we?”

Greg was expecting Tom’s nasty, bitter tone, but it still stings. He’s rude and insensitive most of the time, but it’s not like Tom to be cruel. Greg gulps.

“Uh, yeah, kind of. A bit. What’s up?”

 _Say it,_ Greg thinks, _just say it._ He can’t. 

“I was just checking to see if your phone still works. Glad to see that it does, by the way. I wasn’t sure, since you’ve been ignoring my texts for _ages.”_

Of course Tom is being dramatic about this. It’s been two days, which isn’t exactly ages, but since the guy is paying his rent he supposes it’s far enough that Tom’s angry.

“Sorry about that,” Greg says. “I’ve, uh, I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you about… something.”

“Well, god forbid I stop you from speaking your mind,” Tom replies, still mocking. “Speak. Go on!”

“You don’t wanna meet up?” Greg blinks. “Have I done something to upset you?”

“I don’t know, Greg. Have you? You tell me.”

Greg has no idea what to say to that, so he shakes his head and pushes forward. He has to rip the bandaid off. He has to stop being a pussy and just _say it._

“I think we should stop seeing each other,” he blurts out, and then squeezes his eyes shut, wishing he could disappear. Tom is silent on the other end of the line for a long time.

“What?” He says eventually, voice calm and calculated.

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying sorry. Tell me why.” Tom sounds angry. That’s fair, Greg decides. He did kind of just drop a bombshell.

“It’s just… things are getting complicated now. I think it would be best if we– uh, yeah. You know. I’ll move out, of course. Um, as soon as possible. And I’ll pay rent from now on, so you don’t need to worry.”

“Is this about– about the other day?” Tom asks suddenly, sounding worried, and Greg’s stomach swoops. “At the opera?”

Does Tom know? Is that why he’s so angry already? Did Shiv see him before he could disappear and recognise him somehow? If that’s the case then of _course_ Tom would be mad - he’d think Greg was deliberately lying to him.

“I’m– Tom, I’m sorry,” Greg says, choked up. God, he hopes he doesn’t start crying on the phone. That would be embarrassing. 

“So it’s true then?” Tom asks, voice surprisingly brittle.

“Tom, I swear to god I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t _know.”_

“Jesus, Greg. Don’t insult me. If you’re going to lie, at least do it more convincingly than that. You could have said something, you know? You didn’t have to lie to me– you could have _said_ something.”

“I’m not lying,” Greg tries, but it feels hopeless. Tom clearly doesn’t believe him. “I didn’t _know._ I wouldn’t even know now if I hadn’t seen you together. I didn’t know I was gonna be there until my grandpa asked me to come and then I saw you with Shiv and I _realised–”_

“Wait,” Tom interrupts. “Wait. What?”

Greg blinks. “I didn’t know you were married to _Shiv._ I would’ve never gotten involved if I’d known. I’m sorry, Tom.”

A pause. Then a slow inhale from the other end. “How do you know Shiv?” Tom asks slowly, and then, just as quickly, “Wait, you were with your grandpa?”

Greg frowns. “Um, yes?” He says. “I told you that. I pointed to him.”

“No.” Greg can tell that Tom is shaking his head. He sounds vaguely hysterical now. “No, you absolutely didn’t, Gregory. You told me you were there with ‘somebody’ and then you pointed to some pretty boy at the counter. I thought–”

He cuts himself off suddenly as though embarrassed, but Greg understands. It feels like somebody just dumped ice water over his head. Dread grows heavy in his stomach.

“Oh,” he says. “You thought I wasn’t being… exclusive.”

Tom’s silence on the other end of the line is extremely telling. Greg flushes, embarrassed at having read this all wrong, at not communicating properly, frustrated at Tom for jumping to conclusions before ever actually saying anything.

“Wait,” Tom says. “I still don’t understand how you know Shiv?”

And– and Greg doesn’t really know how to answer that. At least, not in a way that won’t royally piss Tom off. He rubs the back of his neck in discomfort and tries to think.

“Well,” he starts. “Well. That’s complicated.”

Tom arches an eyebrow. “Is it?”

“Kind of?”

They’re both quiet for one horrible, painfully awkward moment that seems to stretch on for hours. Greg waits to see if Tom will say anything, will offer any kind of olive branch, but nothing comes. Eventually, Greg gives up.

“Listen,” he says. “I have to go. I have to go… do a thing.”

“No,” Tom says. 

“I’m really sorry.”

_“No.”_

“I’ll see you later.”

“Greg, I swear to god–”

Greg hangs up before Tom can swear. He finds it hard enough to talk to people at the best of times, let alone when there’s this horrible secret hanging over him, and right now all he wants to do is bury his head in his pillow and scream. 

He should have expected Tom to come find him, really. He’s never hung up on Tom before, and he doubts the man has much experience dealing with that kind of rejection, so he’s almost not even surprised when there’s a knock on his door half an hour later. Greg exhales slowly. Tom has his own key, but it seems that he’s waiting for Greg’s invitation to enter. Maybe all hope is not lost. 

“Wow,” is the first thing Greg says on opening the door. “You look kinda terrible.”

Tom blinks. “Well,” he says. “Pleasure seeing you, too.”

Greg hesitates in the doorway. Tom peers over his shoulder as though he’s expecting to see somebody else there, and Greg is reminded once again of the reason for this miscommunication in the first place.

“Do you wanna come in, then?”

Tom doesn’t bother replying, just pushes past Greg and heads towards the kitchen. Their shoulders brush and Greg winces, a shudder making its way up his spine.

“I would like to apologise,” Tom says, which is a very _Tom_ way to say sorry without actually saying it. “I may have… made some assumptions. That I shouldn’t have made.”

He busies himself making coffee, rifling through Greg’s mostly empty cupboards to find a mug and a spoon. He usually doesn’t deign to drink instant coffee, but the situation must be weighing on his mind more than Greg realised.

“That I was fucking other people, you mean.” Greg crosses his arms, and then let’s them fall to his side when he realises that he doesn’t really have a leg to stand on in this argument. Not that this is an argument. 

Tom winces. “Yes. That. Although I wouldn’t have said it so crassly.”

Greg shrugs. “It’s alright. I should have told you it was my grandfather.”

Tom slams his hands down suddenly onto the counter. Greg jumps– Tom’s jaw is clenched tight and a muscle in his jaw tics. “You shouldn’t have had to,” he says. 

Greg shuffles his feet. He brings one arm up to wrap around his waist and tries not to think about how attractive Tom looks right now, with his hair mussed and his tie loosened. 

“Right,” Greg says, nods. “Okay. Cool.”

“But,” Tom continues. “There is still the issue of Shiv. And the fact that you know her.”

Greg drags his fingers through his hair and exhales slowly. “Okay, just… I promise–”

“That you didn’t know.” Tom nods. His expression is unreadable. “I get it. You’ve said it enough times.”

Greg watches as he pours a mug of coffee, hesitates, and then pours one for Greg. It’s thoughtful, if a little unnecessary. Greg has never felt more awake.

“Okay.” Greg nods. “I’ve never told you my last name, have I?”

Tom frowns. “What?”

“My last name. It’s Hirsch. That actually won’t mean anything to you, I don’t think. But, um, yeah. My dad was a Hirsch. My mom changed her name when they got married.”

Tom’s face is blank. Greg is almost afraid to see how comprehension will change his confusion to anger.

“So, anyway,” Greg says, nervous. “I’ve always been a Hirsch. But my mom– she changed her name back when they got divorced. She’s a Roy.”

There’s a deafening clatter as Tom’s mug hits the counter. Coffee sloshes over the edge and makes a sticky pool on the surface. When Greg dares look up, it’s to see that Tom is already watching him, face pale and eyes wide. 

“You’re not– you’re not her _brother,”_ he says, aghast. Greg doesn’t know whether it’s a question or not, but he answers it anyway.

“We’re cousins. She’s my cousin.”

Tom pauses. “Jesus.”

“I really didn’t know, Tom. I would never have– I didn’t go to the wedding. I didn’t recognise your surname. I would never have done anything like this if I’d known you were married to Shiv. I don’t want to come in between you like that.”

Tom sinks into a chair slowly and drops his head into his hands. His shoulders shake in jerky, aborted movements and there’s a sound like ripping paper. At first, Greg is horrified to think that Tom might be crying. Then, he realises bizarrely, he’s laughing.

He says, “Well, this is a fucking turn of events, isn’t it? Who’d have fucking thought.”

“Are you… okay?” Greg reaches out, wanting desperately to rub Tom’s shoulders, to run his finger under his collar, and then snatches his hand back at the last minute. He doesn’t know how his touch would be received, right now. Tom seems a little hysterical.

“This is just kind of a lot to deal with.” Greg nods, because he understands entirely how Tom feels right now. “Why didn’t you go to the wedding?”

Greg shrugs. “I couldn’t afford a plane ticket. And my family… my grandpa, I mean. He doesn’t exactly get on with Logan Roy.”

Tom snorts. “Who would?” There’s a pause, and then he looks up at Greg. There’s something vulnerable in his eyes, something Greg has only seen a few times before. “It wasn’t all a trick then? Or a scam? You really did need the money?”

“Yes.” Greg swallows past the sting in his throat and blinks back tears. He feels helpless. “It wasn’t– I never meant to ruin your life or anything.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Greg,” Tom says dismissively, and it’s so familiar that it startles a laugh out of both of them. “You haven’t ruined my life. I just… this would be so like them. Like Roman, mostly, but I wouldn’t put it past Logan. I wouldn’t even put it past Shiv.”

At the mention of her name, they both wince. Greg stuffs his hands into his pockets and then changes his mind, shuffles his feet and chews his bottom lip. “Are you… um. I mean, are you going to tell her?”

“That I paid her cousin to fuck me?” Tom raises an eyebrow. “Yes, Greg, I think that will make excellent smalltalk over dinner.”

“Fuck off. You know what I mean.”

Tom sighs again. All things considered, this has gone pretty well so far. 

“Shiv and I… we’re getting a divorce.”

“Oh,” Greg says. 

“Yeah.”

“But you were at the theatre together?” Greg doesn’t know what he’s looking for: an explanation or a loophole.

“A last goodbye, you could say.” Tom smiles fondly, even though the memory seems bittersweet. Greg’s heart is thundering in his chest and his palms are sweaty. “I probably should have mentioned that when I saw you, but… I wasn’t really thinking clearly.”

“So you’re no longer together,” he says, coming to some sort of conclusion. Tom smiles at him, somewhat hesitantly but there nonetheless. 

“That’s correct.”

“You don’t want to be with her anymore.”

“Shiv and I haven’t been happy together for a long time. I mean, we’ve been happy together, but we haven’t been happy _together,_ if you know what I mean.”

Greg nods, even though he has no clue what Tom is talking about. There’s a flame of childish, hopeful excitement flickering in his chest. He doesn’t dare want this, because it will inevitably go wrong. Something always does, for Greg.

But then Tom stands and covers the distance between them and takes Greg’s hand in his, uses his other hand to cup Greg’s face. The look he levels at Greg then is downright _tender,_ and that isn’t something he ever thought he’d say about Tom.

“So,” Tom says, mouth curling into a smile. “I guess I’m officially single. Pending divorce, that is. I wonder how I’ll fill all my time. Any ideas?”

“You’re still a married man,” Greg can’t keep the goofy grin off his face. “None of my ideas seem, uh, appropriate.”

“How about mine then?” Tom’s hand moves to cup Greg’s neck briefly, and then slips down his arm to rest at his waist. It’s so intimate that Greg is breathless, just from that small contact.

“How do you feel about the opera?” Tom asks, and starts to laugh.

Greg kisses him, just to shut him up. 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!


End file.
